Sacajawea

by Anna Lee Waldo

  Near the middle of the night the sky seemed aflame with stars that were falling. Sacajawea watched, bewildered, feeling that the sky would forever after be black with no stars at all. At length she hid her head and listened to the death wails and shrieking of the others who were camped above the ravine. She wondered if Jerk Meat was in camp and decided he must be rounding up the horses with some of the other men. Could he see the sky? she wondered. She was afraid to move. When she looked up again the sky was streaked with the blazing meteors. The meteor shower continued for some time. She thought she heard the wolves howling above the camp’s mourning cries, and she imagined that other women had covered their faces with mud or ashes and torn at their hair until it fell loose.

  A long shudder racked Sacajawea. She pulled her knees up under her chin and folded her arms across them and laid her head on her arms again. Her shoulders shook. No sound came from her, but she was racked with a terrible shaking. Finally she looked at the sky and saw a brightening toward the east. The shooting stars had quieted, and there were only a few long streaks lighting up the dark sky. She thought, Could it be that they are lighting a path so that my child can easily find her way to the Other Side? Ai, that could be it. “Hold your chin up, my child, the path is well lit,” she whispered.

  In the afternoon, Sacajawea went up into the camp. She found Jerk Meat sleeping by the picketed horses. She sat beside him and told him quickly how his daughter had been killed. “Do not hold yourself in,” she said. “Even a man may cry.”

  Jerk Meat cut off the hair on the left side of his head and said nothing. He walked around the burned-out village and then walked to the top of the ravine and stared at the pile of stones. He sat beside the grave, mourning and refusing to eat.

  Sacajawea tried to change the expression of his turned-down lips by talking of the night’s shooting stars. She asked if there would be stars left for the coming night, but it was useless to talk. He continued to mourn in silence, but on the third day he began to smoke and pray.

  Sacajawea gave away all of her cooking utensils and her sewing box and materials. All of the dead child’s clothing and toys, trinkets and ornaments were pushed into the ravine by Sacajawea. There were times when a powerful nausea came over her and she had to sit and breath deeply to overcome the feeling.

  In the night when it rained she put an old buffalo robe over Jerk Meat’s shoulders and sat with him. He ignored her. On the morning of the fourth day he walked back to the burned ashes of the tepee, then to the temporary camp the others had set up. He looked around and slowly went back to the ravine for Sacajawea.

  “Come, our son will be back. He must not find his mother and father gone.” He could not control his voice.

  He reached for her and clung, sobbing. He let thetears fall freely down his cheeks. After several moments he pulled away and put his hand on his woman’s thin brown one. “We must not talk of the child again. We will never forget the Night That the Stars Fell. In the camp everyone was afraid. Kicking Horse said it was a warning that many Quohadas would fall out of sight. Pronghorn said you were caring for the child. I thought you comforted her.”

  “You must not speak of her.” Sacajawea paused and brushed her hand across Jerk Meat’s lips. “A part of me is gone. My heart is on the ground, and I cannot pick it up.”

  “Ai, mine is there beside yours.”

  They helped each other up the embankment. Other families mourned their dead. The Quohadas had lost four young men. Hides Well came to them, her eyes reddened. “Have you heard? Father is dead. Some of the men found him crouched against a tree with a hole in his chest. His bow was in his lap, and an arrow was clutched so tightly in his hand that they could not remove it.”

  Sacajawea stared at her, then shook her head as if to clear it. “I’ll help with the burial preparations.”

  Hides Well put out her hand and shook her head. “No. Pronghorn means to make a long distance today. We have been in this place too long. We are moving out right away. Are you ready?”

  Jerk Meat left to get the horses.

  “But who will wrap Big Badger?”

  “There is no time. We are leaving. He is not important any longer.” Hides Well tried to cover her grief.

  Sacajawea walked slowly along the bajada to the horses. She found Jerk Meat standing around, doing nothing, as if he did not know what to do next. “We will wait at this place for our son. And we will give the grandfather a proper burial,” she said.

  “Hides Well will like that,” he said.

  The Quohadas finished loading their few belongings and left just before the clouds parted and the sun went behind the hill. Hides Well waved from the top of the hill. Spring called, “I’m sure you can follow our trail to the new camp.”

  Then Sacajawea and Jerk Meat used their last goodhide to wrap Big Badger. “Take care of our girl-child,” Sacajawea whispered in Big Badger’s dead ear. They tied him tightly and spent much time on the burial hut.

  “I hope he finds a good fat antelope in the Happy Hunting Ground,” said Jerk Meat.

  “I have been wondering if white men will be with us in that place where there is always dancing and feasting,” she said.

  Jerk Meat looked at his woman quizzically, but said nothing. He was remembering his childhood and the good times he had had with his grandfather as they rode on the plains in the hot sun or in the cold rain. He remembered the straight arrows they made together and the first time he shot a bear. Big Badger had jumped up and down for happiness. The lodge of Pronghorn would never be the same anymore. It would be like a tepee with a large hole ripped in its side.

  Sacajawea dreamed of the pleasure she felt when Big Badger took over the manhood training of Ticannaf. She dreamed of the enjoyment he had showing Butterfly the trick of pulling plum pits from his ears. She cried for the sadness Ticannaf would feel when he returned to find no small sister in his tepee and no great-grandfather to tell his medicine dream to.

  In the morning, Sacajawea asked, “Could we travel forward a short distance to meet our son as he returns?”

  “That would be good. But we must not get close to the Hill for fear of destroying the new manhood of him.”

  “I do not intend to go get him. Just meet him on his way back.”

  “All right, get those packs on the horses,” said Jerk Meat.

  Toward evening they spotted him, a solitary figure on the hot, empty plains. He was jogging along in the general direction of the old camp, and he was taking his time. His roan horse blended in with the mesquite and the brush and the dark yellow earth. He seemed not to have a care in the world.

  Sacajawea grinned. Jerk Meat rode a little faster.

  “I had a vision! I am a man!” They heard his joyous voice call, and they waved their arms to him.

  Then suddenly, when he was close enough, he sucked in his breath a little. “What is wrong? Where is Big

  Badger? And the others? My crybaby sister? I want to tell Big Badger about my vision. Maybe he can see meaning in it.”

  Sacajawea could not hold back the flood of tears. For a moment she could not speak. The young man looked from one parent to the other. Jerk Meat told him of the battle with the soldiers who turned tail and ran from the Quohadas. Soon Sacajawea was filling in details. Ticannaf wept and vowed he would shoot two white men each for the death of his sister and great-grandfather.

  “Do not make rash claims at the moment of sorrow,” warned Jerk Meat.

  The Comanches lived with danger every day, so that death was a reality anticipated. They lived life with joy, but death was greeted by the tribe with great passion and ritual. Sorrow among the living was deeply felt.

  The family of Jerk Meat lived near the lodge of Pronghorn and Hides Well in the new winter place. Spring and Wounded Buck lived near. Wild Plum was eyeing the girls. It would be no time before he had a woman of his own.

  Ticannaf was given a special invitation to attend the first council held in the village that fall. He was to sit in the first c
ircle of men and tell his medicine vision. The Shaman, Kicking Horse, was to interpret the dream if there were questions as to its full meaning.

  Ticannaf was nervous about what he was going to say in front of all the important men. He practiced day after day in the tepee so that he would not forget and leave out some small but important detail.

  Sacajawea listened, but kept her mouth closed. Women were not supposed to hear about the holy vision. It was for men’s ears only. Ticannaf did not consider his mother’s ears; in fact, he was so engrossed in his own thoughts of manhood and his vision that he hardly noticed her at all.

  His speech was long. He started from the time he could see the Hill. He could not mistake it. There it was up ahead, tall and silent. His father had dreamed on the same Hill, perhaps his grandfather, Pronghorn, and his older grandfather, the one now gone. Perhaps the Thunderbird himself lived on the Hill. The Thunderbird was immense and colored dark blue with jagged yellow markings, like the lightning that rent the sky. He had seen one of the sacred places where the Thunderbird had touched Mother Earth. There was a mark, a broken tree, ripped down the center, the white wood exposed and splintered. The branches of the tree hung outstretched on either side to form the shape of a huge bird. The dried grass at the base of the tree was charred black. He had seen this himself.

  He was not afraid and never once considered turning back. There was only this one way to go if he wanted to become a man, a man with horses of his own, and a woman of his own, and the respect of the Quohada band.

  He staked his horse near a muddy spring at the foot of the Hill where there was plenty of grass. He took the packs from his horse and took only his robe, tobacco and pipe, and the fire drill in its case of buffalo horn. He began climbing the Hill. It was not hard. He was used to climbing. The sun did not see him, and the wind touched him every now and again through the brush. The wind had tiny cold teeth, but he hardly felt them.

  At the top of the Hill it was perfectly fiat, with room to put up ten tepees across the top from ridge to ridge. There was nothing but four cedars, wind-stunted, growing near the south side. Four. That was the medicine number.

  He could still see Earth, the Mother, below him, and to the east he thought he could see the even rows of small white tents of the white soldiers. He could not be sure—the light sometimes played tricks at such heights. The night wrapped around him, and the stars sparkled overhead. He told how he felt that this spot was outside of the horizon, beyond Mother Earth, even. This place had been waiting here forever between the sky and Mother Earth. It had been here when the whole Comanche nation had come out of the north, when the first buffalo had been born. It would always be here.

  Mother Earth, guardian of the young below, took on a silver sheen as Mother Moon, guardian of warriors on a raid, rose above the rim of the world. The tinyfires of the imagined white men’s camp seemed to be only reflections of the tiny stars in the dark sky.

  He spread his buffalo robe near the four dwarfed cedars and lay down facing the east. He tried to sleep. He could feel the forces around him, hear them whispering in the trees. He waited to hear the Voice that would speak to him. Suddenly it was daylight.

  His eyes felt the glare of Father Sun. He got up from his robe and faced Father Sun, staring straight at it with narrowed eyes. He reached his palms upward, reaching out for the sky. He could feel the power of Father Sun. It warmed him and filled his body with strength. This was a good feeling.

  He filled his bone pipe with dry tobacco, tamped a dry piece of Spanish moss into the hole of the wooden drill block, and took out his fire drill. He twirled it between the palms of his hands. It was slow, but finally a little smoke curled up from the edges of the hole. The tinder had caught. Instantly he took out the hardwood drill, scooped the burning moss with a bare hand, and put it in the pipe’s bowl. He puffed carefully until the pipe caught. He offered the burning pipe to Father Sun and then to Mother Earth and then to the four directions. He smoked and prayed until there was no more tobacco to burn in the bowl. The harsh smoke had made his mouth dry, but he was not thirsty.

  He sat, waited, as Father Sun climbed high into the sky. There was little shade from the stunted cedars. The sun grew warm; the rocks and dust were hot. He did not feel the heat. The wind dried his skin. He sat motionless, eating no food, drinking no water. He felt pangs of hunger. He was used to hunger, and it did not bother him. He could not see the spring at the foot of the Hill, nor could he see his horse when he was at the very edge of the cap rock. He could not see the little rows of white tents. He was sure now that he had imagined the white men camped out there. The day passed. He sat very still. Then he thought he heard something.

  It was a Voice, a whisper. It was familiar. He shook his head to clear it. It was only the wind in the scraggly little cedars. He could not be fooled.

  He felt the cool light of stars upon him and saw the calm Moon Mother. He thought he saw the tiny thornpricks of yellow fires in rows glowing up at him. He blinked his eyes to make them water and squinched his lids down to see better. It was only the starlight reflecting from some placid stream far below. His imagination could not trick him.

  He did not sleep, but suddenly he was aware of a light that had not been there before. It filled the air and danced over the gray stones of the Hill. He had never seen a light like this before. He pushed aside the robe and got to his feet. He could see every detail of the cap rock vivid with this silver glow. The sky was covered with blazing streaks, like arrows of white light, showering down on the land as far as he could see. The dripping fire seemed to radiate from one point in the sky. He raised his hands, offering himself to the brilliant silver light, to the four directions, and to Mother Earth. He felt faint. His head felt light. The four Holy Cedars seemed to jump out at him, and their shadows were long fingers pointing toward him.3

  Then it was there on the desert floor below him—the yellow-orange reflection of the flaming arrows in the sky in a neat row. Now he knew there was no water in that place. This was his vision! He was having a Holy Dream. Ticannaf could hear himself breathing. He listened for a sound from the flashing sky. There was no sound from those vivid silver streaks, not even the wind, only his own breath moving in and out. Then he heard it—the Voice, a whisper, and it was familiar. The Voice was his own great-grandfather, Big Badger, speaking from the fiery sky.

  “This is your medicine, the night sky filled with stars. The stars push one another off their path of life. See them fall from their trail. They fall as enemies in battle. They fall as white soldiers fall before Quohada warriors. Below is the steadfast reflection. It has nowhere to fall. This is security against enemies. You will dream up this vision of the firm yellow lights when you need protection. It will make you strong. Keep a piece of the yellow light with you forever, for courage and patience. I will leave it for you. Remember how I appeared to you.”

  Ticannaf blinked, and the shimmering sky was quiet. The morning star blinked at him from her proper place.

  No stars were falling. Ticannaf shook with excitement. He ran across the cap rock and looked far below. He looked beyond, down into the plains. He could see nothing but grayness. He fell to his knees, looking, looking. Ai-iii! There it was, a tiny, crystalline rock. A piece of yellow light. It was a clear rhombohedral prism of cal-cite. Ticannaf felt one of the corners depress his fingertip. It was real. He held it tightly in his shaking brown hand. His heart was hammering against his ribs. A piece of yellow light. The soft dawn came up over the rim of Mother Earth. He laid the crystalline prism before him in a soft shaft of light. It seemed to give off a fluorescent glow. He examined the pale yellow crystal in his hand over and over, then held it up so the shaft of dawn pierced it. A tiny rainbow stood against the crystal. Many times that day he made the rainbow appear.

  The sun moved in and out of clouds. Once a thunderstorm rumbled overhead, but no rain fell. The air was hot and stifling; his mouth felt dry as dust. But he was not thirsty enough to wish for water. He could not sit sti
ll. He climbed down the hill; his legs were weak. He patted his horse and then went to the spring. He stared at it, then put his whole head in the muddy pool of water. But he did not drink a drop. When he straightened up, he felt faint. He put his head in again and let the water run through his hair and over his eyes and mouth. He did not open his mouth.

  When he went up the Hill again, it was a steeper slope than it had been the first time. It was much harder to climb. He wondered if he should stay through the whole four Holy Days, then told himself there could be another vision, so he had better stay the prescribed time. He was light-headed and dizzy. He seemed to have no control over his legs. He had to drag them over the cap rock, and his hands were cut on the rocks, but he did not mind.

  In the evening the rain fell, and he wondered why he had gone down to the spring to wet his head. His head buzzed; he shook it to clear it. The day had passed. The night passed.

  The third day was gray. He kept the pale crystal in the palm of his hand. He could not see the rainbowbeside it. Occasionally the rain drizzled. Toward evening, the clouds disappeared and the stars shone. He watched all night. None fell from their place. Everything was calm. A breeze dried the rocks and made Ticannaf shiver. Mother Moon shone on him, but her light could not make the rainbow come from the crystal in his hand. It is locked inside, somewhere, he thought. I will try to get it out again during the day. He pulled his robe tighter around his chest. The night passed into the fourth day. This day he was not a boy. He had passed the Four Medicine Days. Ticannaf was a man.

  He scrambled down the hill, skinning his knees and hands on the sharp rocks, but they did not hurt him. His horse nickered at the new man he saw. Ticannaf ate a strip of jerky from the parfleche near his horse. Then he fell on his belly at the spring and ducked his head; then he opened his mouth and drank. The muddy water filled him, stabbing at his insides. He did not mind. His stomach cramped. He lay down, hardly feeling the pain. He slept before going back to the village. He did not have to hurry. He had a whole lifetime before him.